


The Opposite of Irish Luck (Introduction)

by punkpsyche



Series: The Opposite of Irish Luck [1]
Category: Sean McLoughlin - Fandom, Septicplier, Septiplier - Fandom, jacksepticeye, mark fischbach - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Depression, I don't know how to tag things on here, M/M, Punk Jack, multi-chapter, uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpsyche/pseuds/punkpsyche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 16 consecutive years, Mark travels to his grandparents Clear Lake home to stay for one last summer. Though he normally enjoys his stays, he has one goal this year: telling Jack that he's gay, and that he's madly in love with him. However, while Mark ponders his options anxiously, he neglects to notice one thing that may destroy his chances with Jack for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Home Away From Two Others

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a preface for something later to come, so don't let the fact that it's five chapters seem daunting!
> 
> So, as my second attempt at a fic, I know this will go better. I'm much more into it, and I like what I put out. I hope you enjoy it (and constructive criticism is welcome).

It was 1:09, and the sun had made a point to be known in the entirety of it’s prismatic glory. True, their car was moving fast enough down the empty stretch of interstate that the sun had barely any time to glint through the hollow shadows of California Redwoods, but Mark had been sitting in the same window spot for the afternoon and the top of his hair was beginning to turn to an unpleasantly warm temperature. His body remained unaffected by the outside heat, though maintained a manner of shakiness he was glad his grandmother never noticed; the old woman would have made herself sick with worry. His grandfather, however, may have shrugged the situation off, and labeled him as his ‘father’s child’. Mark never knew what to make of the statement because he'd never visualized his dad as a nervous man, but he had no way to argue with the man who'd raised him.

It was 1:09 and, approximately one hour from his temporary Clear Lake residence, Mark was unable to find a moments peace within himself. Though avoiding Thomas’ company in his summer bedroom would be pleasant, he found himself missing the repetitive I Spy games and the violent fits of laughter that even managed to break his grandfather’s stoicism. Sure, after awhile the two boys had nothing to point out but trees, or the road, or their grandfather’s Hawaiian themed button-downs, but it filled the silence that Mark currently shared with his quiet relatives. But, Mark remembered, none of that quite mattered. Even if Thomas had been here to share the aura of stupidity with him, this summer was still bound to be different; only he knew the ‘secretive’ parts of himself this year.

For a brief second, nausea peaked in Mark’s stomach. He'd known Jack the majority of his life, and he didn't know how the petite brown-haired boy stood on the subjects that hit too close to home lately. On one hand, he could accept Mark with open arms, and on the other… well, it made Mark want to forget that he was ever gay in the first place.

“Mark? How was your junior year?”

The sudden breach of quiet startled Mark, and he wondered for a moment if his grandmother had thought about having a conversation at this specific moment in their seven hour journey. Then he wondered, again, how to answer the question appropriately, as to not worry or anger the old woman who'd been so gracious to be overprotective toward him when no one else really was, “Uhm, it was okay. Busy.”

For once, his lack of real presence in conversation didn't seem to bother the old woman, who smiled gently in no particular direction, “Well, I hope you're ready for next year. You have lots of stuff to do, and decide. Poor Thomas is already too busy to visit us. Have you decided what you'll be doing after school? Where you'll go to college?"

 _College_.

The word itself made his stomach twist into uncomfortable little knots. Mark knew, deep down, he had no specific fear of college – even despite having no semblance of a major yet – but of leaving. Clear Lake had become something of a second home, especially with Jack around. Even if this summer’s reveal went well, he couldn't expect Jack to hang around in the backwoods of California to wait for him to complete an undetermined major. If not unfair, it was just unpractical, “I haven't really thought about it. Maybe I'll just go in Thomas’ direction, and go to LAUA. I'm good at that sort of stuff.”

His grandmother nodded, somewhat knowingly, as if she could understand his train of thought, “I think you would be a great fit for LAUA. Your mother couldn't even deny that; and we know how she felt about Thomas applying.”

Thomas receiving a letter of admission from his top choice had been enough of a disaster – even for Mark, who experienced it secondhand. His mother hadn't been angry, per say, but the entire household knew how ignored and disappointed she felt by the end of the night. Even the announcement of his acceptance to other relatives of the family was concluded with a sigh, and the words ‘Yes, he got in’ said with such a mellow irritation that even Mark began to wonder if his brother felt as guilty as he did.

“Uh, yeah. I don't really want a repeat of that.”

“It's a damn shame that she can't see the talent in you two. Enough about all that business, though – are you excited to be back in Clear Lake? I set up the bedroom for you last night, and I left behind Thomas’ bed in case you wanted someone over – and also, that Adams couple is having a barbecue tonight, so maybe you could invite someone to that if you wanted…”

Her words began to fade into the air between the two. Mark was in a close enough proximity to hear her regardless of his desire too, but the cruise they'd went on with the Adams’ just a month prior didn't bare a lot of significance to Mark. Instead, he watched the trees wither into the plain shrubbery and vibrant grass of a small suburban neighborhood just outside of Clear Lake. Mark had been in the area before – beyond a car ride – and he had a few fond memories of Jack here. Trees had felt their small grasps, the swings had felt their weight, and the air had absorbed Mark’s anxiety the moment he realized that he felt for Jack in a manner that wasn't friendship. It had all been a bit surreal – the air was rich was August heat and the smell of the nearby lake and meat grilling, and the sunlight had hit Jack’s eye at such an angle that Mark’s heart had hit his throat.

He had been both thankful and a bit disappointed to return to his L.A. home just a day after.

***

“Don’t mind all the clutter, son, I'll have it out by tonight,” The older man set the last suitcase onto the floor. Nodding, Mark dropped his duffel bag at his feet, and examined the walls with a bit of distaste. He wouldn't ever admit to his grandmother that he didn't particularly enjoy having rows of family photos judge him while he slept, so staring at an uncle and a cousin or two that he hadn't seen in four years was all he could do. His grandfather stepped forward and took hold of what appeared to be an empty box, “If you feel that way, just imagine how strangers feel. Anyway – unpack. She expects you at the little gathering thing they're having later.”

Giving him a bit of an odd look, Mark nodded again, “I didn't think I'd be able to get out of it anyway, grandpa.”

“I can't blame you for thinkin’ that way. It should be fun though. Besides, you have friends here. What about that McLoughlin boy? His family will be there, I'm sure. They're all very good people, so the chance they'd turn down a social gathering is slim.”

That McLoughlin boy. Sure, Mark thought, they were friends, but that could change as soon as he said what he needed to, “Uh, yeah, Seán and I are good friends. I guess it wouldn't be too bad to see him after such a long time. But – grandpa – I don't really have that many friends here. I have Seán and… yeah. I have Seán.”

The man gave Mark a sympathetic look. It stunned the teen, as his grandfather had never been one to take part in his social life – or, really, anything – let alone how devoid his social life was of, well, socializing. The old man didn't seem phased, however, and flashed a half smile before he left the room with empty box in hand.

Mark reached for his first suitcase, and pulled it to the top of his temporary mattress. He had little energy left after the halfhearted road trip and the baffling encounter with his grandfather, and the very idea of unpacking his belongings was exhausting. But, due to its demand and his (likely) impatient grandmother, he unzipped the nylon piece and began to take out clothing with careful haste. Much to Mark’s pleasure, putting his small wardrobe away was not a task that required excess exertion, and his duffel bag was being unzipped before ten minutes had passed. It, unlike his suitcases, held much more personal things – things that he didn't want his grandparents to touch.

Some of it was mere basics. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shower essentials, and things of the like. Mark didn't care much if they were touched, more so used. The further into the bag he dug, though, the more he desired privacy. His grandparents did not need to read a journal detailing aspects of his sexuality. His grandparents did not need to question him on the mysterious band tee he had now, even despite his lack of previous interest in rock bands.

His grandparents did not need to know that Jack was much more than a neighborhood friend to Mark.

Mark held the shirt – or, clutched it, rather – and stared at the images depicted on it. He didn't know the band, and had never heard them mentioned in passing conversations before, but the faded tee held a special place in Mark’s heart. The moment hadn't even been pleasant, especially since it occurred purely out of Mark’s severe lack of self-esteem, but Jack’s genuine care for him had pulled a couple heart strings. Carefully, Mark bundled his journal into the shirt and pushed them both into the back of his dresser’s bottom drawer. If his grandmother had any reason to ever go through his things, there was little chance she'd adventure that far. His own tees couldn't ever hold that much interest, at least not to her.

Mark closed the drawer and stood slowly. He didn't know how he was supposed to approach this subject with Jack. Was Jack homophobic? Was he also gay? Would he ever be interested in Mark if he was?

“Hey Mark, whatcha doin’? You look deep in thought there, son,” Mark turned suddenly, and found that he hadn't heard his grandfather walk back into the guest room. The old man held a box – well, two – in his arms and stared at Mark a bit quizzically, as if he was expecting some kind of big reveal, “You hidin’ somethin’? You're not doing drugs, right?”

Despite the man’s serious expression, Mark couldn’t help but laugh, “No, sir, I'm not doing drugs. I was just thinking about something was all. Do you need some help?”

He shook his head, “Nope, I think I can handle a couple of empty boxes. You just get ready for the barbeque and head outside before your poor grandmother gets too irritated.”

Unceremoniously, the man abandoned Mark in the quiet of the room again, and began his short trek to the basement. Sighing, Mark wandered a small distance to the bedroom door and shut it, content that his grandfather didn't find out information he didn't need to know. Mark wasn't sure how his grandparents would react when told, so he thought it best to keep it as low as possible (at least until his mother found out, then it was up in the air).

Returning to his dresser, Mark quickly changed into a brilliantly red pair of shorts, slipped into his single pair of flip flops, and began the distance to the lake. Much to his liking, the air was crisp with the smell of lake water, and the trees overhead provided enough shade on his short journey to keep him cool in the summer air. Hot weather had never been something he had a particular liking for, but he dealt with it long enough to enjoy his time at Clear Lake – which the lake was. His stumbling return to the surrounding area was enough to prompt a few dozen hello’s thrown in his direction, which he welcomed with a bit of awkwardness. Normally, in these situations, he would rely on his brother, or even Jack, but neither were here to provide a quick getaway.

“Mark! It's so great to see you again – and you've grown! I remember when you were only up to my waist, and now look at you, towering over me!”

“It's nice to see you again too, Charlie,” Hesitantly, Mark hugged the shorter woman who'd adorned her face with lip gloss and sunglasses despite their location, “Yeah, I uh… I guess I hit a growth spurt awhile ago.”

Somehow, as the perfumed woman stepped away Mark and began talking with someone else that held a brightly colored – and likely alcoholic – drink, Mark began to wonder if the entire event would be this way. Of course, in the past, some people had cared to act like they were close enough to him to really give a damn, but Thomas stole the limelight most years. ‘Where are you going to college?’, ‘What are you majoring in?’, and ‘Any cute girls?’ were frequent questions the older male had endured, and Mark wasn’t sure he was prepared to answer any of them… even if he had answers in mind.

“Mark! – hey, Mark! You came down!” Mark knew the voice anywhere. Of course it wasn't the one he preferred to be hearing, but he was acceptable enough, “Yeah, I uh – I have every year. Why wouldn't I now?”

“I dunno. Maybe you're growing to old for this.”

Mark shrugged, and the man – who happened to work for his grandfather – gave him a bright smile, “Hopefully we can catch up sometime. But, until then, I'll see you – I have to get back to the shop, anyway.”

And with that, the only other teenager here disappeared into a crowd of people. Mark wasn’t sure his company was necessarily desired at the moment, but it was definitely better than a bunch of adults talking about his new height and his new jawline… which was the all the day would find to talk about.

***

The edge of a wave touched Mark’s bare feet. He couldn't remember how long he'd been laying in this exact spot in sand, but it hadn't been long after he ate that he'd plopped himself in the sand and elected not to move for anyone but Jack. Even then, he wondered if he'd move, but he was sure he'd be far too fidgety to hold entirely still.

At this point, the sun was setting, and painting the cloudless sky in an array of yellow, orange, red, pink, and a tiny amount of purple at the very edge of the horizon. Somewhere in the near distance, families that inhabited various lake houses shouted their hourly farewells over the sound of dying music and crashing waves, and Mark, despite the knots in his stomach, felt a bit at peace. Sure, the sunset couldn't help him come out to Jack, but it certainly made the hectic evening a lot calmer and a lot prettier than it had been before (his grandparents didn't know, but Mark had secretly watched the two brothers from across the lake fight each other until blood came from one’s nose).

Breaching into his moment, Mark’s grandfather made his way next to the teen and stood for a moment, staring at the bright sky before him, before letting out a much needed sigh, “I have to admit, I had fun. I hope you did too. You comin’ inside with us? It's getting’ kind of late – not that you can't handle yourself, just wondering.”

Mark looked up at the older man. He was shirtless, giving the water a proud display of graying chest hair and a bit of a beer belly, and parts of his shoulders were red, like Mark assumed his own were by now, “Yeah, in a bit. It's nice out here – quiet.”

“I don't blame you for wanting some peace, Mark. Anyway. I'm going to go inside and shower so your grandmother can go to bed. Try to be back before midnight, alright?”

“Definitely.”

The old man nodded, and began a heavy-footed walk back to the house. Mark found the quiet to be much less peaceful now, especially as his blank mind began to manifest creatures of thought that he would have preferred to forget at the moment.

_There's no way Jack is gay. He probably doesn't like gays, either. So, you tell him and lose a great friend, or you hide and risk something bad happening. But what if he is gay? It's not like he'd really go for you anyway - there's lots of better looking people near Clear Lake that he could get with._

Mark shook his head, trying to remove the plagued words from his head. Slowly, while making a sad attempt to dust sand off of his burnt body, Mark began to stand, and make slow steps to the house. His feet seemed to work at snail-like pace, and he made an attempt to move faster, though a weight seemed content enough to anchor him into sand and let the water continue to wash against him all night long. Until after the sun had set, and the sky had made its transformation from fiery shades of warmth to deep blues and small bits of yellow that made him recall how small his existence really was.

With a shaky exhale, Mark slipped into his flip flops and continued walking up the shore. His life was turning into a bit of a chore with this whole gay thing, and at this point, he wanted nothing more than to pretend he'd never seen Jack in a romantic light.

“Mark? Hey, wait up!”

Though he knew the outcome of this, Mark stopped, and turned on his heel – which, much to his dismay, pressed sand into his bare foot. Jack, dressed in a faded tank top, black basketball shorts, and a worn pair of converse, still looked brilliant against the darkening backdrop of the lake. With his hands shoved deep into his pockets, he approached Mark without caution – which Mark wished he could do at this point – and gave Mark a wide smile.

“It's been too long, buddy. C’mere.”

Without fair warning, Jack threw his arms around Mark’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. They'd never hugged in the past, but Mark accepted the sudden gesture of affection. And then it hit him like a brick falling from a 10-story building; the fact that he felt safe and at home in the shorter boy’s arms, and there was no way it ever _could_ be home.


	2. News From Two A.M. and Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disturbing dream, Mark awakes to a phone call and a morning of truths.
> 
> (The song mentioned is Fade Into (The Ocean) by 10 Years).

Mark was unable to discern his surroundings. The body of water before him was the single aspect that was even remotely recognizable, though it's usual calm demeanor had grown into a much anxious intensity. Mark’s eyes darted lazily across the surface, as if his own pupils had become a flat stone, and he began to worry. The thrashing waves may have been excused with some phenomena he didn't understand, but the water – it had no reason to lack clarity. He'd been alive for nearly 18 years, and never once had it been so dark, and so… tainted.

It was the only word that came to mind; the only word that could even begin to describe how unclean he felt, even while standing on a patch of sand approximately ten feet away. It looked as though it had been the missing piece in a vastly unexplored sea, and the entire notion made Mark far more uncomfortable than he could admit to himself, even in his solitude.

In the near distance, however, a shadow stood. Water reached as high as the being’s thighs, and an occasional wave would dampen the very edge of it’s shirt. Mark found himself overcome with concern for the faceless figure – of course, the figure lacked true humanity, but he had no doubt that something unnatural was occurring here, and the idea of leaving something behind in it forced him to understand how deep his sudden feelings for this shadow were. Mark saw no reason for such an overwhelmingly urge to protect it.

But he yelled anyway. And the sound that erupted from his throat did not enclose the air by him – instead, it progressed as though it had been shouted down an empty tunnel in the city. Could the shadow even hear him? Was his voice going anywhere beyond his own head?

Nonetheless, his efforts of rescue had little reason to matter. Mark traced the events of the scene carefully, though found little way to piece them into the same puzzle. The sky above had darkened immensely, as if robbing the sun of color and light completely, and the lake still kept a sick, vicious air about it. And the thing – which was undoubtedly human – was near. It wore Jack’s outfit from the previous night, yet neglected to carry the small Irishman’s features, if any at all. It gave Mark a very gentle smile in attempts of kindness… which fell upon it’s own realization that Mark wouldn’t – or possibly couldn't - return the favor. So it spoke, in a hushed, distant whisper:

“It will be too late soon, Mark. Mark? Mark!”

The shadow took hold of Mark’s shoulders and shook him in a manner that matched the beat of his own heart, “Mark! Come on, Mark, _Jack needs you!_ ”

 

***

  
Somewhere nearby, a gentle tone of iPhone brand marimbas broke the strangling quiet. Mark had little desire to move from underneath his blanket, so the ceiling, though a plain white and lacking in imperfections, held his attention for the sake of regulating his breathing. He had a very vague idea of who would contact him before dawn had even begun to break, but it was a hopeful idea that probably held no truth beyond his own imagination (which had already run wild enough with a paralyzing dream). Mark couldn’t be sure he was ready to face whatever reality showed on his screen – he could barely face the one of a sudden awakening without being sent into a panic about what it had all meant.

Still, the phone was about as persistent as his thoughts, and he was pretty sure his unknown sender was equally as aggressive in their attempts for contact. Rather than prolong the gentle tone, Mark threw his arm at the night stand and reached for the damned device. Parallel to his rampant thoughts, the caller I.D. on screen read a simple ‘Jack’, and though the grief is caused to answer him, Mark knew _he_ wouldn't stop, so sliding his thumb across the screen was no longer a decision he could make himself.

“Jack, why are you –“

“I know how late it is Mark, don't lecture me on time. Can you meet me outside? I need to talk to someone, and I… don’t exactly have other friends who answer me at 3:25 in the mornin’. I swear it's just this one time, Mark, please.”

Perplexed, Mark sat up in his bed and ignored the ache beginning to form in his skull. Jack was not the type to seek out support. Though, if Mark was being truthful with himself, Jack wasn't the type to have to seek out support, and this sudden phone call dripped with desperation that Mark understood without meaning to, “Uhm, sure. Just, let me get dressed, and I'll head out there. Is everything okay?”

On the other end, Jack sighed. Instantly, Mark found his words rather stupid, because it was pretty damn obvious that something was wrong.

“Yes. Or, kind of but… not at all. Everything is very _not_ okay.”

And then the line was dead, and Mark felt like concern and fear had teamed up and punched him directly in the stomach. He'd seen Jack sad before; after all, growing up around someone for 12 years warranted seeing nearly every emotion Mark could list off of the top of his head. But this was a new, specific sort of desperation that the Irishman didn't seem capable of even feeling until this very moment, when Mark dressed blindly and left his grandparents’ house unlocked in his attempt to be the friend Jack had asked for.

Jack stood directly in front of the water, and eyed the dark horizon. His clothes had yet to be changed since their last encounter, yet his shoes were discarded near a small patch where the sand intersected with the grass of various houses. Cautiously, as if his presence would make things worse, Mark joined Jack on the shore. The two never met gazes, yet Jack, whose hands remained on the insides of his pockets, sighed deeply, and dug his foot into the sand, “Your parents love you, right? You get along with them?”

The question knocked Mark back backward slightly. He'd never been asked something of that nature, nor had he ever thought about the answer. Of course, most of the time Mark did get along with his family, though each member possessed a negative quality or two that made him wonder if the validity behind ‘yes’ was honest. His mother could be a bit of a control freak. His father could be avoidant. His brother could be over-confident, if not cocky. Did that warrant no as a truthful answer? Mark didn't know, “I mean… we have our moments, and my mom isn't totally convinced on some of our hobbies, but we get along. They love me.”

Jack nodded, and exhaled to avoid crying. Mark didn't have to ask to know how right he was, “Why… why did you ask me that?”

To contradict the moment, Jack wheezed out a small laugh and shook his head, as if he had fallen directly into a trance-like state of disbelief, “Keep it that way, buddy.”

An uncomfortable silence cloaked the two boys. Jack's eyes remained trained on the water in front of them, as if contemplating what to do with it, yet Mark kept focused on his friend. Jack was sad. Mark could tell that much. But it was a deeper sort of sadness, one similar to the personified versions of depression, that Mark had only felt once or twice in his life. Days, even weeks, had been subconsciously denied and accompanied by Mark’s continuous seeking of comfort, which he'd never found to begin with.

Instead, it had faded; tucked itself away for miserable days to come when he least expected them to. He hoped Jack’s circumstance lacked similarity.

“My dad called me an hour ago. Mark, he, I…,” Jack stopped his words abruptly, and gave into the weariness that had overcome his mind in the matter of a few words. Within seconds, Jack’s breathing began to fall into an unsteady pace, and the entire situation made Mark want to throw up. Seeing Jack – the boy who had granted him years of what seemed like an eternal friendship, the boy who had taken his heart and allowed him to know love beyond brief infatuations with blonde girls – so hurt brought him physical discomfort he couldn't describe properly. Perhaps it was the fact that his ultimate ‘hero’ role was here and now, presented to him so vividly, and he could do absolutely nothing but stand and stare while Jack fell into jagged little pieces.

The silence returned, and Mark felt words lodged in his throat. Regardless of his extraordinary composure, a dozen possibilities ran through his thoughts. Physical abuse. Emotional abuse. _Sexual_ abuse. Rumors and gossip. Hospital visits. Death.

None of it soothed Mark’s uneasiness.

“He kicked me out. That's all. He kicked me out because I'm 18 and not the son he thought he raised. And, since I'm doin’ my best to be honest, I couldn’t care less about actually going back home. He and I weren't exactly the best father-son duo, but,” Interrupting his own words, Jack laced his arms around his thin frame, as if to shield from a total mental breakdown, “Mark, I.. He didn't care at all. I know parents do stuff like this all the time, but, they have to feel a little remorse, right?”

Mark parted his lips, searching for the correct words to reassure the Irishman’s assumptions. In the moment, he felt small and helpless, loathing his lack of words for being unable to rectify the situation, “I don’t know what situation it wouldn't be appropriate to be guilty about that. Unless… I dunno, maybe their kid was a mass murderer or something. I don't think guilt would be a pertinent subject then.”

A quiet giggle erupted from Jack, and a ghost of a smile rested on his lips, “Yeah, I don't think I'd be worried about their feelings then either. But, I’m staying here, or, for now, I’m staying here. Graduating might change that. But – I mean, all bad things aside, at least I'm closer to you. It'll be nice to have a friend who isn't 3400 miles away.”

“Oh come on Jack, that's like, walking distance.”

Accompanied by a release of the tension held in his muscles, Jack let his eyes drift from the horizon and to his best friend, “Y’know, Mark Fischbach, you're a real ass. All jokin’ aside though – do you wanna go do somethin’? I don't think I can fall back asleep.”

Disregarding the exhaustion that had set in his bones a matter of minutes ago, Mark gave the boy a quick nod, “But.. what is there to do around here this early? Most places are probably closed by now, right?”

“Well,” Jack began, “You’re right, most places were closed three or four hours ago. But I've had some time to explore without you.”

 

***

 

Mark had lost hope in denying his feelings for Jack – and not just those that spoke of his own romantic intentions. Even the things he'd initially found absolutely ridiculous about the boy were now aspects that Mark admired – the way he slept with a blanket over his back only, the way he'd eat both his food and Mark’s, and even the way he'd never manage to settle on a song. A lot of times, Jack had questionable tendencies, and Mark had learned to love them as much as the Irishman himself.

Except his tendencies behind the wheel of his grandparents’ truck. Mark had trouble recalling a single instance where he'd ever been this nervous when someone else drove, and his ideas on the subject even included Wade’s first joyride – which, as a whole, had been completely reckless and panic-inducing. But, at least Wade hadn't driven on sand just for the hell of it, or turned up music Mark couldn’t identify so loud that he could barely distinguish his own thoughts from the lyrics. And, while the volume remained, Jack was now on the road, in an odd state that both suggested and dismissed focus on the asphalt ahead.

In spite of Jack’s obvious irritation, Mark slid the volume dial slightly to the left and sighed, “Won't you get in trouble for taking this?”

Jack shrugged, and turned the blinker on. A small arrow flashed right, “Only if they find out. I know they won't be up ‘till at 8 at the earliest, and I don't intend on stayin’ out that late,” He paused, turned, and then added, “Unless you want to, anyway.”

The tone of his voice was slightly concerning, though the thought fled Mark’s mind when an SUV swerved too close for his comfort, “I think I'd worry my grandma too much.”

“Yeah, she's a worrier.”

With such a plain statement, Jack silenced himself, leaving nothing but the bass of a rock song Mark couldn’t identify to fill the silence.

_Here I lie with my regrets,_  
_Possessions petty, meaningless,_  
_You are my medicine,_  
_Healing me with tenderness._

Sighing deeply, Jack touched his phone gently, shifting the melancholic aura to a much more confident one, which Mark found to resonate well with Jack’s usual personality, “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Mark, you're far too concerned with things, and it’s driving me fuckin’ crazy. You’ve asked me more questions in the last six hours than you ever have in the last 12 years, and you're gonna tell me what's on your mind before I tell you crap about what I have planned. So start talking, or shut up and enjoy the car ride.”

Jesus, was he really _that_ easy to see through?

“Jack, it's.. not as simple as you make it sound,” Mark mumbled. He could feel his body begin to tremble and, if Jack noticed, he hoped the Irishman would pass it off as the ever-changing periods of illumination that dim street lamps provided, “I wish it was.”

Irritation, and hints of anger, passed over Jack’s face. Neither took long to disappear, “Yeah, I guess. You can tell me anything, though. It's not like I'm gonna ditch my best, and only, friend over trivial bullshit and doom myself to isolation. Now, if you're curiosity is burnin’ that bad.. I don't really have a plan. I don’t want to remember what he said, and goin’ on a pointless drive with my best friend seemed like a healthy way to do that.”

Healthy. The word stung in ways Mark couldn’t explain, and his thoughts reached the kind of concepts that only occurred behind closed doors. The idea disturbed him.

“What all did he say?”

Presumably uncomfortable with the question he'd been presented with, Jack swallowed the lump forming in his throat and took a right turn, refusing to acknowledge Mark. At this point, the urban area of Clear Lake had been reduced to a winding road littered with few buildings. Each looked more abandoned and decrepit than the last, and seemed to portray the exact opposite of Clear Lake’s usual appearance. Jack’s absence of a destination was immediately worrisome, if not terrifying, “Talking about it doesn't help me forget, Mark. But, I trust you, and it's easier to be informed than in the dark.”

Despite insinuations about providing Mark with information, the brown-haired boy sealed his lips and, with surgeon-like focus, took a sharp right turn. The truck’s headlights shone upon a small park, one that looked too old to even be considered suitable for children. Even given it’s eerie ambience, Mark noticed his heart rate begin to steady as Jack pulled the keys from the ignition, “Follow me.”

Obediently, Mark slid himself out of the car and, as if under an adoration induced trance, he copied Jack’s actions down to very specifics – pace, and which foot went before the other. His steps fell in easy succession, and came to an abrupt halt as Jack plopped himself onto a rather rusted merry-go-round. While questioning its safety, Mark did the same.

“I don't know a whole lot about you. You know what is and isn't appropriate to say. But, since you've known me so long, you know I'm not the same. I say what I want, when I want, even if it isn't desired. But, the public can't handle everything, and those things get told to the people I happen to be close to, like family and friends,” Hesitating, Jack exhaled, as if frustrated with the way his words formed, “Mark – there are things you dunno about me, and I'm not gonna make tonight all about me revealin’ crap that doesn't need to be said, but my dad knew them all, even if it wasn't by my own accord. Those things – or, that thing, I guess – he didn’t…”

For a moment that seemed suspended in time, Jack quit rambling altogether, and instead met his best friend’s gaze with a deeply penetrating stare that seemed to drill holes in Mark. This had begun to feel more like an interrogation than a conversation.

“Would your family accept you if you told them something that completely changed who you were?”

Mark shrugged weakly, feeling oddly broken by Jack’s questions. This wasn't about him, yet no matters of repetition could remove the feeling that this had become a route to his own heavy confessions.

“Mark, I'm not quite who you think I am. What he thinks, though – what he _knows_ about his own _son_ – is what he couldn't handle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a direction with this, but no idea on how to get there. Regardless, since this is the fourth version and I'm awake due to excessive Mountain Dew consumption, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> On other notes:  
> 1\. This 'preface' will move rather fast. I'm covering a summer in five chapters, and I hope that isn't an issue.  
> 2\. Thank you all SO much for the support. I know my numbers don't compare, but I received way more kudos and comments than I ever expected, and it overwhelmed me to the point of happy tears. So, again, thank you!


	3. How to Spend a Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession or two is attempted, yet vague bad news has a dirty habit of getting in the way.

The air had shifted. The weather had not changed – at least, the actual weather and not Mark’s own nightmarish renditions of it – and the sun still bathed the small Californian town in thick golden rays, but the air… today, it assumed Clear Lake to be the most passionate of all the neighboring cities. Rather than typical friendliness, today gave way for an enthusiastic sort of socialization that draped even the worst of celebrators in blankets of hospitality. A pattern of it had begun to show – calm was the usual façade, yet as holidays approached on calendars around Clear Lake, the area transformed into a brighter scene. Mark had watched the attitude become a trademark – and apparently, several families had as well. Even the quietest of people seemed drawn into the suburban bubble the community provided.

Today was the Fourth of July and, while last year's version of Mark would have been taunting his older brother with sparklers, his current self took paces away from the early celebration. It was out of the ordinary for him to reject the party with such ease, especially when ‘party’ was often his grandmother’s excuse for forced mingling, but the older woman had since lost track of him. And, though this was the easiest justification for his departure, Jack provided a much better means for escape. Whether or not Mark could decipher the meaning of his text was not what mattered. What did, of course, was that his grandmother couldn't deny him leaving if it still involved other people.

She despised the inevitably of solitude.

Mark stood at the edge of the forest. In truth, it was a broad patch of trees and couldn't really be claimed as a forest, yet the area had seemed to stretch on for an immeasurable distance to the child that had first explored it. It had been here, along beaten paths and orchestras of little woodland animals, that Mark had begun to see Clear Lake beyond his grandparents’ front porch. Thomas had displayed his skills in freeze tag. Mark had been stung by an unidentifiable bug. Jack had first spoken to them both, his lilt so defined that it could be heard over the wails of nearby birds.

Physically, he lived within Los Angeles and Clear Lake, but, psychologically… that was here.

Wordlessly, Jack had approached the scene and fixed his eyes onto the same spot, evidently feeling the same, irritating little jabs of quiet nostalgia. Mark wasn't like Jack – not in certain aspects, anyway – and this particular moment seemed to speak for what their friendship was. It was based on summers, on close proximities, on the personality trait of asocial. Mark’s eyes left the trees, and dropped to his shoes. Briefly, he wondered if Jack felt the same discomfort.

Jack probably isn't worried about what will happen to “us” after this.

“Mark Fischbach, are you ready for this?”

Jack’s accent was oddly distinct today. It appeared to pull at his words as he spoke each and every one of them. Nonetheless, it matched his over-excited confidence in whatever thoughts crossed his mind, and Mark couldn’t help but feel a little bit of the enthusiasm that drifted in his direction, “You didn't exactly tell me what we were doing.”

And, just like it had manifested, Jack’s confidence disappeared, and his smile flipped into a frown of realization, “Right. I absolutely knew that. Come on, walk with me, talk with me. I'm showin’ you this place because I don't really wanna deal with people today, but, it's not in the best of locations, since it's just across a fence that goes around some, uh – private property. We can't be seen.”

We can't be seen.

Mark toyed with the words in his brain. He couldn't even fathom getting in trouble while at school, let alone at a police station with angry, disappointed old people. Who was to say he was fast enough to escape the watchful eyes of someone unknown? Jack should have known better – Mark may have been stronger, but he couldn't begin to touch how graceful and agile Jack was on his feet.

Yet, even despite his viable excuses, Mark began to equal Jack’s pace, with no sign of trying to reject the Irishman’s adventure.

“Yeah, okay. I'll do my best.”

Of course, he knew this was likely the worst thing he'd agreed to over the past forty or so days. A few dozen scenarios – most depicting failure - remained immovable from his thoughts, and none of them put his mind to ease. Jack believed in him. He believed in Jack. He, however, did not believe in himself, and recognized how blindly he was going into this entire situation. But, of course, this was Jack, and Mark had quickly began to understand what ridiculous things he'd throw himself into just to get his attention. At some point, Mark knew his attempts had become a bit pathetic, and occasionally they made dignity a fool.

“Where we're goin’ is pretty close to the fence, so quit worryin’. I doubt you'll be clumsy enough to be caught, since the owner is probably away for the holiday. He usually is.”

The holiday. Mark felt like smacking himself. While the biggest factor of the day, it had somehow completely evaded all rational thought, “I hope so. I don't really want to get in trouble today, or, well, any day for that matter. I'd rather not be lectured on my new rebellious tendencies.”

“I couldn't take you seriously as a rebel. Mark Fischbach, skipping class. Mark Fischbach, spray paintin’ on buildings to say ‘fuck you’ to modern society. Nah, I don’t see it,” Though faintly, Mark could hear Jack laugh at the idea. And, beneath his ribs, Mark’s heart fluttered, overcome by the tiniest of sounds.

“Yeah, me neither. You, maybe. You already look the part.”

“I won’t take offense to that.”

Silence – aside from the mumbles of a party and the day songs of birds – painted the air. For once, Mark observed, it wasn’t a painful moment built on acknowledging the inner self. This, instead, was comfortable, and a moment constructed only on spending time together. Mark had little idea what today would give to him – other than possibly a headache – but either way, he elected to be satisfied.

 

***

 

Jack had been over the fence for a solid three minutes now. It had been effortless. When not with Mark, this was where Jack was: over the fence, a few paces ahead, content to spend his day alone. Sure, he adored being around Mark, but “home” had spawned recluse-like qualities. Jack didn't really like people, but, he'd never found his asocial tendencies to be a defective trait. People didn't really like him either. It was a concept born from his family’s early success; their upbringings, their traits, their schooling, their jobs. Jack had carried the family name in a much more reckless manner. The only worthy thing he'd really done was be honest.

And it had gotten him nowhere, except 5000 miles away, in a place he was only vaguely aware of. Clear Lake was microscopic in comparison to the rest of the U.S.

Jack watched Mark, taking mental note of how he gripped the fence, how he pressed his body into it and allowed it to sag backward. He'd repeated this same process twice already, and Jack had recognized awhile ago that he was letting anxiety settle in his blood. He knew it well; it had become a toxic substance that, while it had taken up permanent residence in his veins, he had learned to forget it. Mark didn't seem to have a coping mechanism beyond fighting it.

Following an unsteady breath, Jack crossed his arms. At some point, Mark’s display of failure, though unintentional, had lost it’s humorous quality.

“Mark – take a breath. Go up quickly. Don't give it time to pull you back down.”

For a short moment, Mark stared, attempting to process the simple instructions. His fingers laced through a single diamond shape, and he gripped the metal gingerly, “Are you sure this is safe, Jack?”

“I'm over here, aren't I?”

Mark shrugged, unable to give a reasonable argument.

Much to Jack’s satisfaction, Mark was able to follow his advice on his first attempt, and, once at the top, he dropped onto the ground with ease. It was strange to see such childlike pleasure written across his face, yet, either way, Jack’s thoughts forcefully wandered into forbidden areas laced with a thousand sorts of taboo. He had pride toward it, without question, but his best friend was a consistent issue. The imagined, impossible scenarios had begun to plague his sleep, and his quickly deteriorating mental stability.

He had always wondered if Mark had studied him closely to know without affirmations.

Mark had already taken a few brave steps forward on the path which had begun to fade from dirt to thick grass and wild flowers, “Where are we going, anyway? This place looks like people haven’t been near it in awhile.”

His nervous anxiety had evidently worn off and warped into excitement, as now he stood in front of Jack and bounced on the balls of his feet with a wide grin spread across his cheeks. It was entirely too adorable – especially given Mark’s eighteen years – and Jack immediately recognized the feeling that bubbled in the very center of his abdomen. While pleasurable, he'd grown to loathe it, “It's just up here. It shouldn't be longer than a couple minutes.”

“That still doesn't answer my first question,” Mark grumbled. His persistence had become a bit impressive, almost similar to that of a child on a long drive.

Jack was the first to take hold of the ladder, as if to prove to Mark that his questioning was no longer a necessity on their short journey. Exercising careful caution, he stepped onto the first rung, and hoped Mark had enough sense to follow.

The past months had not been good to the treehouse. The once spacious area had been half claimed by excessive leaves and branches that had, likely over the previous autumn, died and broken off onto the throw rug. Jack couldn't remember how vibrant it had once been. Part of him identified with the rug – he assumed the same for Mark. Neither were quite the same and, though Jack fully understood his own reasons, Mark’s had yet to be revealed.

A desperate part of him wished it was a mutual thought or two, but he doubted it greatly.

Nonetheless, the place was still furnished to the best of the owner’s apparent abilities. Two shelves sat against the north wall, and a sofa nearly devoid of its original red velvet color had been placed directly across them. Decorations remained sparse, and the shelves contained nothing but a box Jack had claimed for his own belongings when he'd first entered the space that didn't belong to him.

“So what do you do up here?”

Surprised by Mark’s absence of sarcastic comments, Jack plopped himself onto the sofa. A near silent groan echoed back at him, the wood protesting over the extra weight, “I think. It's nice when I’m up here alone; no one to invade my privacy or demand things of me. I know it's small and… there's not really anythin’ here, but it's peaceful,” Overcome with sudden concern about Mark’s thoughts, Jack slumped further into the aged fabric. He was odd enough. Mark didn't need any extra incentive to leave him the dust. The thought stung in a peculiar sort of way, one that Jack couldn't begin to make sense of.

“Why’d you bring me here, then? I don't allow much room for thought, Jack.”

 _You allow for more room than you'll ever understand_.

“Because we didn't want to be at the party, and you're my friend. It'd be nice to spend time with you without the constant eyes watchin’ us. Besides - it's not like you could intrude on me, since this place belongs to someone else.”

“I guess,” Mark took a careful seat next to the small green-haired boy, and rested his hands in his lap, “What do you think about? Besides your family, anyway.”

Jack swallowed, doing little to remove the onslaught of fear that now invaded his blood. There was no pretending. Mark could see directly through each and every lie Jack could choose to tell, “I can't explain everything I think about, Mark.”

“Are you afraid of telling me, Jack? I don't have the heart to judge you – kinks and all.”

Jack shook his head and laughed, amused by Mark’s immediate conclusion and anxious about his absence of denial. Sex of any kind was consistently the last thing on his mind. Admitting that Mark was on the forefront constantly, though, was seemingly impossible, especially given how close the black-haired boy sat near him.

“There's just some things that are best kept private for now, Mark.”

Though displeasing, Mark did not reject his best friend’s words. Instead, he remained silent, and watched the branches by the window away softly in the breeze.

 

***

 

Jack had fallen asleep. Mark had no recollection of when; eventually, the two had removed the strangled silence and talked about absolute nonsense, and Jack had fallen into his shoulder in a moment of sleep-inspired affection. Though just his hair – which felt unclean – and part of his cheek pressed into Mark’s shoulder, he felt afraid to move, unsure of when a moment like this would appear in his life again – if ever.

Mark studied his features carefully. His lips pursed, his eyes shut gently – almost as if he was faking sleep like Mark often did as a child – and his hands resting in his lap. This Jack was far different from the typical exuberant green-haired teenager that made Mark’s heart forget it was supposed to beat for something other than Jack. The boy next to him was calm and breathed shallowly, and had begun to make Mark feel as though he had been drug into the eye of a hurricane that would viciously spit him back out the other side.

It was a thought he had no desire to entertain.

Evening sunlight had creeped in-between the empty spaces of the tree and cast itself across the treehouse. Shadows had taken irregular shapes, and even given the fact that many of them had rested on Jack’s sleeping form, the sun still seemed to bathe him in a way that absolutely screamed beautiful. Scenarios began to swim about his thoughts – some realistic, some more impossible than he was willing to admit. He wondered what it was like to walk hand in hand with Jack. He wondered what Jack’s lips felt like.

He wondered how it would feel to hear Jack say ‘ _I love you_ ’ in a sense that was far beyond the platonic relationship they already shared.

At the first sound of fireworks, the Irishman stirred. His hair, damp with sweat from the entire afternoon, stuck briefly to Mark’s arm as he opened his eyes and shifted forward a centimeter or two. His yawn was a sickly sweet sound, and Mark was beginning to curse himself for ever loving Jack.

“Hey, Mark,” Again, he yawned, and this time added a gentle pat to Mark’s chest for some affect Mark couldn’t pinpoint, “What time is it? Why’d you lemme sleep?”

It was a question Mark didn't have an answer to. Granted, he could have forced Jack to stay awake and accompany him, but his better judgment had suggested he let the boy sleep. God knew he was going through enough as it was – maybe he just wanted to use his best friend as a pillow in a treehouse, “Probably seven or eight. And, I dunno. You seemed comfortable.”

Jack gave him a small huff, and lifted his palm to Mark's chest again. This time, he let his hand lay flat, and though Mark had become quickly curious about how aware Jack was directly after waking up, he was sure Jack could feel his heart racing.

“I left you alone, though. You probably got bored without me.”

Mark couldn’t exactly deny his assumption, but he shook his head anyway, “Whatever, Jack. If you were that tired you needed sleep anyway.”

“I’m glad you're here with me, Mark.”

“I'm glad I'm here too, Jack.”

Jack sighed - deeply, in a way that suggested anxiety setting into his bones, “Mark, there's a couple things I really need to tell you. Will you get mad? Will you hate me?”

“I wouldn't ever have a reason to, Jack.”

Though unable to see it, Mark knew a minuscule smile played on Jack’s lips. Now more than ever, Mark began to feel complete, unadulterated desperation – to come out, to tell Jack his feelings, for Jack to feel the same way, for Jack to kiss him with the same sort of desperation he currently felt. Yet, before a word had been spoken, before heartfelt confessions had been spilled from trembling lips, a gentle tone began to play from Jack’s back pocket.

For some reason, the world was starting to feel absolutely hopeless.

“Hello?... Oh. Can I stay for just a bit longer?... Okay. I understand… Bye.”

With yet another sigh, Jack slid his phone back into his pocket, and threw his glance toward Mark. Mark could tell he felt a similar sort of hopelessness, though he couldn't say why.

And, without warning, Jack wrapped his arms carefully around Mark’s waist and pulled him into a hug that seemed to say goodbye in a way that words couldn't, “Thanks for bein’ such a good friend to me, Mark. I'll see you later.”

Then, without any excessive words, Mark watched as Jack retreated from the cramped space, using one hand to wipe his eye and the other to ball his t-shirt into a white-knuckled fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finally caught a break?!
> 
> No, in all honesty, all drama has left. My life is falling into place. Currently, I've got sunburnt knees, and I'm camping outside the San Marcos river here in Texas with my best friend and her family. Though we swam through some rapids (not by choice), and got a bit beat up, I'm in a far better emotional place than I was before.
> 
> On another note, I hope you enjoy this (especially considering how much I battled with myself to finish it), and I thank you all for being so patient with me. I appreciate every single kudos, comment, bookmark, and even hit. They seriously make my day, and make me feel like I'm doing something right for once.
> 
> And, finally, I'd like to just give a special thank you to Roosterbytes for instilling some extra confidence in me, because I seriously needed it.


	4. Implied and Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the process of finding out answers for the previous night's emotions, Mark discovers the error in his panic. On top of it, rather accidental confessions are made... finally.

7:53. That's what the clock had read when Mark had first peeled his eyes opened, and he had been instantly greeted with the smell of oranges that his grandmother had squished into juice and poured into three glasses. He'd been offered one – how they knew he was awake was a question he didn't care to find an answer to – and he'd rejected, feeling troubled by the night before. It wasn't like Jack to leave without reason, and even if the reason had been of the dire and utmost importance, it definitely wasn't like Jack to avoid responding to Mark’s constant texting and calling. At first, Mark easily accepted passing off his lack of responding as him still being curled up in bed, though he figured at some point, Jack had to have gotten annoyed with the constant buzzing of notifications.

Now, with a clock reading 8:19, Mark stared at his blank white ceiling with his arms folded beneath his head. His mind, even while still slow from poor sleep, had seemed to work in overdrive. The first thought was that somehow, even without any indications whatsoever, Jack knew, and he hated it. The second thought was that he was, too, and simply worried about what Mark would think – sure, it didn't logically follow who Jack was, but it had worked with his sleep-soaked questioning.

Neither way seemed to follow any path of logic beyond Mark’s own assumptions, and those were generally so far-fetched that they were pointless to even daydream about.

Another knock came at his door, and he didn't so much as flinch, “Mark, we made some food - it's pancakes. If you want some, they're on the counter. Your grandfather and I will be with the Adams’ if you need us.”

For once, his response had not been a requirement in conversation, and he listened closely as he grandmother shuffled away from behind the door. She had been concerned about his new attitude, and he gave her credit for that, but her constant check-ups had become quite a bit irritating within the last few minutes. She had the potential to understand, but no courage to hear. Mark had no courage to tell.

Once more, he attempted texting Jack, asking for him to respond to at least dismiss the fear that had begun to manifest in Mark’s psyche.

It was true, he was afraid. He wasn't positive of Jack’s history with depression, or any factors that may accompany it's miserable personality, but he wasn't willing to test it. He had lost a family, in essence, and if Jack followed his normal spontaneity, he could be dead on his bedroom floor easier than Mark could even fathom. The feeling it put in his stomach was absolutely nauseating, and made him wonder why he hadn't fought against Jack’s departure. He could have at least followed him out.

Overwhelmed by discomfort and paranoia, Mark swung his legs out of bed first, and hastily pulled a pair of discarded basketball shorts over his lower half. His exit worked quicker than his ideas – a shirt with an unknown pattern was pulled over his head, and he had left the room without a bother to shut the door and keep his privacy private.

It seemed as though too many people were outside for the present time – the mere concept of humanity was barely thought of before ten in the morning on any normal day – yet everyone who had joined the unannounced party seemed to be staring directly at him. The Adam’s, the Williams’, even the lone Scott and his own grandparents, had made a spectacle out of him, and some had even started to throw him sympathetic glances that apologized without words. It didn't sink in immediately. Rather than think, Mark had trudged on, frustrated and upset over the events that had unfolded over the last 24 hours.

But when it sank it, and buried itself deep into the recesses of his mind, it was immovable. His best friend was dead. Jack was dead. He had to be. There was no other reason the entirety of his grandparents’ neighborhood would be awake before the sun had fully risen out of the sky otherwise. He was dead, his grandparents had found him dead, and they were in their home and no one had told him. Mark wondered how he died. He wondered if he'd done it himself. He wondered why he kept moving while he broke down and swiped furiously at his eyes instead of doing the intelligent and dropping onto the ground just to take it full force.

Sounds of sympathy – there likely was no empathy present here – radiated from the small crowds. Mark hated every second of it, and had a nearly irresistible urge to yell at them and make them stop, because they couldn't understand this. They couldn't understand what Mark didn't tell, they couldn't understand that Mark had wanted to badly to make the green-haired boy happy in every existing definition of the word.

They couldn't understand that, of all things the mistakes Mark had made, this was the absolute worst.

Staring at the McLoughlin house did nothing to slow his thoughts or loosen the grip on his heart. He'd been in it more times than he could count. He'd felt the sun on his face while he and Jack camped on the carpet, he'd felt the water from their hot tub on his sunburnt skin, he'd felt the floor moan underneath his weight. Things had seemed to glow within the house, as if Jack had grazed his hands across every surface he could manageably reach. Yet, as Mark climbed the steps with the only strength he could find buried within himself, things were quickly beginning to dull. Anymore, it appeared as if the world was torturing him specifically, and leaving the others in his life on the sidelines to watch his suffering like a TV show.

Without a second thought, he reached for the doorknob and turned it, surprised to find the door unlocked. For a very brief moment, he hesitated, afraid of what would come next. Each possibility forced fear deeper into his thoughts.

_Maybe this is what he wanted to tell me yesterday._

He pushed the door. However, what he saw was not crying grandparents, nor the dead body of a teenage boy that he'd mistakenly fallen in love with. There was no blood, no rope, no pills. There were no implications of suicide, of paramedics who had already come and gone without major disruption.

Rather, there was nothing – nothing except pale walls and a hardwood floor to stare back at him, and taunt him in ways that made his mind come to a painful halt for the first time that morning.

 

***

 

Blindly, Mark had forced his body – now heavy with an agitated mixture of denial and grief – further into the empty house. He couldn't even begin to touch comprehension. The sudden uprising made no sense at all – there had been no indication, at least none that Mark had managed to notice – and the fact that Jack had left Mark oblivious had made his hands shake out of an emotion he couldn't name properly.

God, maybe this had been what Jack wanted to say. Mark felt his stomach protest against the pancakes he hadn't eaten and the orange juice he hadn't drank. Viewing the empty home this way was more discouraging than the potential that Jack had always had to reject him.

Mark sensed a sort of mindlessness take over control, as if his subconscious was directing his each and every move. Though he had no memory of wanting to go upstairs – which held only a second bathroom and Jack’s bedroom – he wandered up the stairs anyway, planting each foot on each step harder than the last. Life within the McLoughlin house seemed to move in slow motion, where Mark had the potential to feel everything in a depth he didn't want to. Outside, where neighbors of neighbors of neighbors mocked him with their sympathetic expressions and soft voices, Mark had felt the hysteria – yet he hadn't expressed it.

Unsurprisingly, he found Jack’s bedroom first, without a conscious thought of even doing so. Of course, he knew it would be empty, yet reality had blatantly refused to set in until he'd laid his eyes – which had become glossy with tears – on the vacant space. The floor, now cleaner, signaled the stirring of dust as his furniture was removed and put into a truck to be driven to god-knows-where. Holes from mismatched thumb tacks still dotted the walls.

Things weren't pristine. Pieces of Mark’s life had resided here and, now missing, despair took a deadly grip on his hand. He wanted to collapse. He wanted to cry until he couldn't breathe, as it seemed to be a better option than feeling this. He wanted to hate Jack; to resent him for not talking about something so prominent, to despise him for choosing to indulge in happiness rather than goodbyes.

He didn't have to think twice to understand the impracticalities of all these scenarios. The only thing he could do to Jack was apologize for not forcing the correct words out of his mouth.

An unidentifiable desire beckoned him toward Jack’s closet, and cold air creeped up his spine as he followed his feet obediently. Maybe Jack had left a shirt behind, neatly hung with a light blue hanger, similar to the one he had put in Mark’s hands so many years ago. Maybe it was a suit that he'd prepared for something special that had never come. Maybe it was nothing but the memory of hiding among Jack’s clothes during a game of hide-and-seek with one other neighborhood child he couldn't remember the name of.

The memory had once been pleasant. It had once inspired him to remember that Jack’s clothes smelled very specifically of the trees and a detergent he assumed was named something like ‘clean linen’. Those were different times, though, because they hadn't made Mark feel like an invisible presence was making a worthwhile attempt at breaking his ribs.

But there were no rumpled band tees, no suits that had never been touched, no flashbacks of childish games from six years ago. Rather, in the corner lay a composition book that had been scribbled on in a manner that suggested a sort of chaotic, anxiety-inspired creativity. It was in rough condition, with crumpled and drink-stained edges and an unorganized array of sticky notes stuck out from the top. Gingerly, Mark picked it up, and scanned over the note that had occupied the only blank spot.

**Seán McLoughlin**   
**2006-2007**

 

***

 

The sky had already faded into an oily shade of blue when Mark had gathered the courage to leave the empty McLoughlin home. Stars, bright white and pale yellow, clustered together in spots far from the clouds that still remained, and Mark had traced his grandmother’s frame on the porch. She waited for him under the door frame, throwing apologetic glances and the potential comfort he could confide in her, and silently begged of him to return home. She had been so quiet, so gentle, so patient, as if Jack’s absence had affected her in a manner similar. Mark knew it hadn't. She'd known the McLoughlin family as neighbors, and her grief would have passed by the next morning.

Mark had gone inside wordless, and dropped his body on his bed, feeling nothing but guilt and a sort of numbness that still left him aware. He hoped his presence enough to put the old woman’s worrisome heart at ease.

The journal had been abandoned on his dresser. Next to it, his phone buzzed incessantly, and he wondered which of his contacts had responded to his pleas for acknowledgement. Maybe it had been no one concerned with the word suicide; maybe it was just emails, just silly games alerting him of a refill of lives.

Jack was a false hope. He couldn't remember how many times he'd texted him, called him, or messaged him on various social media accounts – he doubted the Irishman had even tried to answer. Yet, Mark lifted himself from bed simply to calm the storm of notifications.

The first ten had been Wade, immediately concerned when his best friend had come to him in a cheerless manner. He'd apologized for not getting back to him sooner, and proceeded to talk of what other things had occupied his time. Bob had simply apologized, and asked what he could do to help. Mark had had no heart to answer. Jack’s name, accompanied by a four leaf clover emoticon, hadn't been listed.

“Mark, sweetie? Are you still awake?”

His grandmother’s voice – barely audible through the door – rang quietly among his thoughts. For a moment, he did nothing but breathe, and contemplate his options. Her presence wasn't necessarily desired, yet, Mark couldn’t force himself to make her grief worse, “Yeah, I'm awake, grandma. You can come in.”

Once inside, she took homage on his bed, and made herself comfortable. Despite this, she still appeared fairly distressed by her dark surroundings, by the sudden disarray Mark’s temporary bedroom had found in ten hours, “Mark, I think we need to talk about today. I know Seán… I know he didn't say anything.”

“Yeah, he didn't,” Absentmindedly, Mark began to thumb the pages of Jack’s journal. He had yet to understand why he'd felt compelled to take it from the closet.

“Mark, they just weren't comfortable sending Seán to Clear Lake for school. The town isn't all that great during the school year. They still own the lakehouse, but –“

“Couldn't they pay tuition?”

Mark felt small, and his voice felt too quiet to hear. He wondered if his grandmother noticed his eyes.

“Sweetie, it's not that simple. It's far more inexpensive to rent an apartment for nine months than it is to pay tuition. They still own the lakehouse. They will come back after Seán finishes his senior year. Seán is a sweet boy; he won't stop being your friend over something so trivial.”

Mark wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream. Oh, wasn't this beautifully ironic, how his friendship with Jack wasn't worth losing over a move, and how his grandmother believed that to be the source of his discontent, “I don't think you understand, grandma. I know Seán and I will stay friends. That's not why I'm upset.”

“I don't… What do you mean, Mark?”

Mark had read about this moment – how it was romanticized as shaking limbs and skipping hearts and racing thoughts. He understood the beauty of relief, and the trauma of worry. He knew best case versus neutral case versus worst case. He understood how it never got easier, how it was a never-ending conversation of how’s and when’s and who’s. He knew he didn't feel like anyone else had. He'd never seen anyone in a video with adrenaline pushing their words out of their mouths, he'd never read about anyone who'd been so overwhelmed with conflicting emotions that they could do little to control their actions.

“Seán is more than a friend to me. I love him. I love him, and he doesn't know I love him, and he doesn't even know I don't love girls, and _I love him_.”

 

***

 

_February 8, 2006._

_I wanted to tell him yesterday, but I couldn't do it. I tried at breakfast. I tried again at lunch. I tried after I blew out the candles, after Ma cut the cake, after we'd all eaten cake, after every one had gone home and again before bed. I joked instead of telling him. And he laughed, and said he loved how weird I was._

_That feeling wasn't present today. I went into his office this morning and told him we had to have a serious conversation, and he set his work aside and asked what was wrong. He was concerned. I'll give him that much. I asked him what he thought of gay people – is that some kind of standard? I don't know. And then it went something like this:_

_Dad: …_  
Dad: I’m not terribly fond of their lifestyle, but it's not my business to be involved in. As long as they avoid our family and our business, I have no problem with them existing as they do already. Why do you ask, Seán? Have you got a gay friend?  
Jack: …   
Dad: …  
Jack: No, but I'm gay.

_I don't know why I just blurted it out like I did. I should have known that it was a bad idea to open my mouth further after what he said, but, what a way to be impulsive. After that, he just left. He didn't shut the door behind him. He didn't acknowledge me at lunch, but he did snap at my brothers when they started to throw food at each other. Needless to say, Ma had a talk with him after._

_He asked me how I figured at dinner – since everyone knew by then – and I said I didn't really know. I mean, of course I know why, but they don't know about what goes on in America. I don't need them to pull my privilege from under my ass. But, anyway - that's when dad got really upset, and he started mumbling about how “this wasn't how he raised me” and he “couldn't believe I liked dick”. Everything was chaos. My brothers laughed at the word “dick” and my sisters tried to defend me and Ma and dad got into a heated argument about how I was raised and why they should or shouldn't accept me as I am. I went to my room around the same time dad said he'd rather kick me out than deal with the “repercussions my sexual preference would bring”._

_I got off the phone with Mark a bit ago, since he insisted he cheer me up without knowing the problem. He laughed at his own idiocy, and jesus, he's why. He's the only reason that I ever had these thoughts, and the only reason I ever confirmed them. He doesn't know. I don't know how in the hell I'll tell him._

_I hope he knows how beautiful he is._

_\- Jack._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm early! That's a surprise. I'm also home with the world's itchiest sunburn and I'm ready to skin myself because of it. Forgive me if anything is thrown off because of it.
> 
> Now, onto the fun stuff. I was very excited for this chapter and I hope it delivers. However, in that regard, the next chapter will be the last, and I'll likely take a small break between it and the full story so that I can do things relating to school (AKA summer assignments for AP classes). I will still post, though, but it'll be shorts that you can suggest AUs for if you'd like.
> 
> Anyway! I hope you enjoy, and the last chapter will hopefully be up in a timely manner. Have a good day!


	5. Difficult Games Come With Bad Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings don't always come to those who deserve them.

_May 29, 2007._

_Mark and I skyped last night. Normally, when we skype before he comes to Clear Lake, he's really excited. It's hard to find a moment to talk – he's all about messing with Thomas, and lighting fireworks with everyone, and visiting me, and visiting his grandparents, and flaunting just how gorgeous he knows he is. Maybe he was just tired, or sad that Thomas won't be here this year, but he wasn't himself. I didn't want to bring it up either, in case it wasn't my business, but... I'm still kinda worried._

_It's probably nothing, and I'm just reading too far into the situation because of how dad has been lately._

_I also had this dream last night. The area wasn't somewhere I ever remember being, but Mark and I were sitting on some bed and he had this stupid smile on his face. Not stupid, like, actually stupid, stupid like, I wanted to consider it stupid because it made me feel better about the fact that I was fucking starstruck. Anyway. We're sitting on this bed, and he has his head resting on my shoulder, and he keeps mumbling 'thank you' over and over and over, and I guess he was thanking me, but I'm not really sure why. We stayed that way for a long time and then – right before I woke up, of course – he held my hand and said what is quite possibly the quietest 'I love you' I've ever heard._

_\- Jack._

 

_***_

 

“Dear, this isn't just about Mark missing his friend. Not anymore.”

“What else could it possibly be about, mom?”

Was this it? A story not on his own accord. A tale of misguided romance where the author told of a lack of dragons, of princesses, of castles, with a disgusted tint of confusion to her voice. This was it. A new quality of suffocation had bewitched the air. Anymore, Mark couldn't tell if he was breathing, if the things written in a strange disarray of cursive and print were true, if his grandmother's words were betraying his trust.

And then, hushed this time, “Mark told me loves the boy – Sean. I think Mark may be gay.”

 

***

 

_July 1, 2007._

_I don't know why everything is so phenomenally difficult to say. Mark couldn't care, could he? Could he?_

_Okay, yes, he'd care if he knew we were leaving. Every adult that knows agrees in my decision not to say so. I don't want to say it because I don't want Mark to feel betrayed. I don't want to hopelessness or despair on his face. I have strength, but not that much. But – this summer – it was about telling him the other things, the things he has to know if I ever have a chance in hell of maintaining a healthy relationship with him. So why isn't this easy? There's that phrase – you can pick your friends but you can't pick your family, or whatever it is – so logically, this should be a thousand times easier to tell Mark, right? Maybe I'm just that unlucky._

_So much for the Irish luck._

_I also went outside last night. It was probably about 2:30, maybe 3:00, but I sat by the shore and it felt like hours that I was out there, just thinking. Part of me thought about begging Mark to come outside, to sit with me and just genuinely enjoy the silence while all the social people slept, but I couldn't bring myself to wake him up. That one time I did though – god, that was too much. I know he was in a rush to get to me, but half awake, half put together Mark is certainly a scene I'd like to witness again if I ever get the chance. Because, never once, in all the people I've ever dealt with before, has someone ever looked so damn cute with mismatched clothes and crooked glasses on their face._

_\- Jack._

 

_***_

 

“There's no way. Mark has never shown any interest for other boys in that way. Why would he start now?”

“Who cares if he is gay? Who he's into shouldn't really dictate how you guys feel about him.”

“Thomas, you don't understand -”

“Why don't I understand?”

“Sean is part of the McLoughlin family – you remember, the ones I told you about? They're nice people, but I've heard that Sean can be trouble. His father kicked him out over the summer.”

“Sean is less trouble than his brothers.”

“Is this what you and Mark are about, Thomas? Art degrees and boys?”

“Now wait -”

Denial, acceptance, denial, acceptance. Mark had played the game before, and it only ever resulted in losers. Yet, through the door, the pieces had been dug out of the box and dealt to each player. On a board of chaos, accusations, fear, and hurt feelings had begun to roll a die for their turn.

 

***

 

_July 2, 2007._

_I've never choked on words this hard before. God, it shouldn't be this hard. Saying it is the easy part, right? What comes after though, that's the hard part. The part where you count down those few milliseconds or seconds or minutes or hours or days or weeks or years for a response to what you've just said. The part where you wait to see if they still love you. The part where you wait to say if they consider you a freak simply for committing the act of feeling something._

_I've changed the way I want to tell him a thousand and one times. With nothing. With a fact. With an explanation. With a plead. With an apology. With hope. With anxiety. With texts. With phone calls. With letters. With e-mails. With someone else. Yet, I have told him exactly zero times, and I'm going to drive myself into absolute madness if I don't manage to soon. Normally, there wouldn't be so much pressure. I could do it when it's somewhat convenient. I could call him at two in the afternoon and take him to the treehouse and do it in a place I felt safe. Maybe he'd feel safe too. Or, I could do it over a skype call, when he's half asleep and can't register my words very well. He could react the next morning. We could both sleep on it. But that'd be deceiving._

_Mark is sentimental, right? I'd consider him to be. Maybe he'd accept an 'I love you' before he even knew the idea behind it._

_\- Jack._

 

_***_

 

“We all just need to calm down and discuss this like the mature, rational adults that -”

“If you're going to be that way, then don't make him stay here. It's not fair to anyone. Don't let him be a burden on your bigotry and don't make him suffer because of it.”

“Now, Thomas -”

“Your little brother only has so many options. Where would you ever intend for him to go when he has no means of income and still has to finish high school?”

“Ken and I have a spare bedroom until something can be worked out.”

 

***

 

_June 3, 2007._

_Tomorrow is my last chance to tell him. Something tells me that, once again, Irish luck will not be on my side. But god, it needs to be. Loving someone without a mutual feeling to be known is possibly the most painful thing I've had to submit myself to._

_\- Jack._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, where do I even begin.
> 
> This was an absolute blast to write. I know the formatting is slightly different (and may be even more different than when I started this, as Ao3 seems to be working against me), it's not quite as long, and some parts are (intentionally) confusing, but it sums up the ending in the way I wanted it to. In that regard, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
> 
> NOW. I have no idea when I'll be able to get the first chapter of the full story out, especially since I put off summer work to write this alone (totally on my own part, I was too damn excited), but do expect... something. I have tons of ideas swimming around in my head and I'm bound to make them into something eventually.
> 
> Have a good day!


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